


Concerning Hobbits

by Nieve Wolfcaller (Nieve_Wolfcaller)



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hobbits, The Shire, fíli and kíli are adorable idiots, this is not princely behaviour, you must be mr. boggins!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 21:46:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nieve_Wolfcaller/pseuds/Nieve%20Wolfcaller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fíli and Kíli get just a little bit lost on their way to the meeting in Bag End. Poor Hobbiton isn’t quite ready for the likes of the two dwarvish princes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Concerning Hobbits

“What sort of creature is a Boggins, do you think?”

Up ahead, the white pony swished its tail and Fíli’s voice carried back to him. “A _Baggins_ is not a creature, it’s a Hobbit.”

“Yes, well,” Kíli gestured about him, though he was careful not to let go of the reins, either. Neither he nor the sorrel pony had been entirely trustful of the other since an unfortunate incident involving a narrow path and a conveniently dwarf-level branch in the downs. “Is it like one of these? Because they don’t look much like burglars to me.”

Indeed, all around them, the grassy knolls were inhabited by Hobbits. Some of them were busy toiling in their gardens; others sat on the stoops of little round entranceways dug out of the hillside, gossiping to their neighbours and peering at the dwarf princes as they passed. The Hobbit men puffed on long pipes that emitted white rings of smoke; the women only shook their heads and whispered to one another. Everyone was barefoot and very short, so even stocky Fíli looked like a giant in comparison.

There seemed to be a lot of Hobbitlings, too – certainly more than the scant number of dwarf children Kíli had ever known in the village. They scurried about in the roads or gathered near painted mailboxes to watch the procession, wide-eyed. For a while, three of them – two muddy-footed boys and a girl – trailed behind the ponies, hushing giggles behind their hands. They padded so closely on their heels that the sorrel snorted and tossed his mane in agitation.

“Careful back there,” Fíli called down to the Hobbitlings. “Give the ponies some space, don’t want them to hurt you.”

Not long after that declaration, one of the gossipy women hustled off her doorstep to take her children by the arm. Huffing, she escorted them back to the safety of their yard, but not before one of the boys cupped his hands and shouted.

“Hey, mister! Are those _real_ swords?”

Kíli lifted an eyebrow, glancing ahead to his brother. Fíli did not turn around, did not appear to have heard. Yet, after an indulgent moment, he reached over his shoulder. He drew one of his twin swords, just far enough so that sunlight caught the edge of steel and turned it white. The Hobbitlings went wide-eyed in awe.

The dwarf princes ignored the furious, scandalized look the Hobbit mother sent at their backs as they rode on.

When they could no longer hear the Hobbitlings clamouring over one another at the gate behind them (“ _Warriors_ , mum! Where’re they going? I wanna see the swords again, please!”), Kíli pressed the sorrel ahead and trotted abreast of his brother.

“So,” he said conversationally. “A Hobbit burglar.”

“So it is,” agreed Fíli mutually. He heard the unasked question in the words – Kíli was sure he did – but his brother divulged nothing. Thus, for a moment longer, Kíli struggled over his words. In the end, his doubts spilled out in a rush.

“They don’t look like they’d hold swords or axes. Or even stand their ground in a fight.”

“A burglar doesn’t need swords or axes,” answered Fíli. His voice was perfectly fair: the genial self-assurance expected of the king’s heir. Yet, Kíli heard an undertone of something else. It was often in Fíli’s voice, lately.

_Worry._

“I’m sure he’s capable,” Fíli went on. “Uncle Thórin wouldn’t have agreed to it otherwise.”

Kíli nodded, lowering his head. He watched his brother from the corner of his eye, almost wanting to say _sorry_ , but for what, he wasn’t sure, since it wasn’t his fault Fíli was worried. At that moment, though, Fíli inclined his head, the beads in his hair rattling. “You’ve got a shadow or two there, you know.”

Kíli looked over his shoulder and saw the wide-eyed Hobbitlings. These ones were different: a girl with braids and a curly-haired boy. They went pink at his notice, but the girl still pointed curiously.

“What’s that?”

Instinctively Kíli touched the leather-covered quiver on his back. He couldn’t quite help a grin. “A bow. The finest bow in the Blue Mountains. Want a look?”

The Hobbitlings nodded.

With a flourish, he drew the stout recurve bow from its protective sheath. The gesture earned appreciative gasps from the children, and Kíli’s grin broadened as he straightened in the saddle. He didn’t think Fíli would approve of his stringing an arrow in the middle of Hobbiton – even if it was with the purest of intentions. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but mime it.

Kíli brought the bow up in front of him. He lifted himself on his toes in the stirrups, cocked the bow above the sorrel’s pricked ears, shut one eye as he took aim at a green mailbox down the lane. The string thrummed beneath his fingers, the release strangely voiceless in the absence of an arrow’s whisper.

But it was a bull’s eye nonetheless, and the Hobbitlings erupted into cheers as Kíli sat back. Fíli had to be rolling his eyes at his antics, but Kíli didn’t care. He grinned like a fool as the Hobbitlings tagged along in his disgruntled pony’s shadow.

The Hobbit boy in particular was breathless with excitement. “Are you a Ranger, sir? Pa told me all Rangers carry Elvish bows!”

Kíli’s grin faltered. “It’s not Elvish,” he corrected the overeager Hobbitling. “It’s Dwarvish. Elves don’t use horn –”

But explaining was pointless. The Hobbitling had never seen a bow before – be it a slender Elvish hunting bow, a Man’s tall longbow, or even the gnarled, ugly creation of an Orc. The boy stopped in his tracks, wide-eyed.

“Dwarves have _bows_?”

Something prickled in his chest. Kíli opened his mouth, but it was Fíli’s voice that answered.

“Aye, we have bows. Want to know why you’ve never heard of them?”

“Why?” asked the girl.

“Because unlike the Elves,” Fíli winked, “our archers never miss.”

He said it with a smile, so it wasn’t a threat. Nevertheless, they soon turned off the dusty road and left the Hobbitlings behind. Fíli, back in the lead, guided his white pony up the winding hillside. The Hobbit holes were fewer and farther between now, and fewer children scurried underfoot.

“. . . I miss, sometimes,” Kíli felt the need to say in the silence.

Fíli glanced back at him. “Not in front of Uncle.”

_No_ , agreed Kíli, and he remembered that was the important bit. Tentatively, he grinned back at his brother. “No, sir, never.”

The remainder of the ride to where Mr. Boggins lived was undisturbed. Or, at least, Kíli thought that’s where they were headed, until Fíli stopped short in front of him. Kíli peered ahead: they had reached the edge of the foothills.

He cocked his head. “Fíli . . .”

Fíli said nothing.

Kíli sidled the sorrel up next to the white pony and leaned an arm on his brother’s shoulder. “Fee, we’re lost, aren’t we?”

Fíli’s ears went pink. “No. No, we are most definitely where we want to be, which is . . .”

“Lost?”

“ _No_.”

“Ah. That’s why you were drawing that map last night.” The mere memory of a shadowy camp on the edge of the woods made him yawn. It was close on supper time, Kíli realized dimly. They had been riding all day.

He prodded his brother. “All that study, and you still can’t read a simple map.”

“I can. Shut up.”

Kíli settled for a vague sound that wasn’t quite agreement. Furiously, Fíli dug for Thórin’s map in his saddlebags, his efforts hampered somewhat by the fact that Kíli was leaning most of his weight on him.

“Will you shove off?”

“Fee, why don’t you just ask someone? Like . . . him, maybe?” Lazily Kíli gestured in the direction of the nearest Hobbit hole. While Fíli had been searching and muttering darkly to himself, Kíli’s eyes had caught the movement of an old Hobbit in his yard. As he watched, the Hobbit collected a bundle from his mailbox and shuffled toward his door, his footsteps maybe a bit more hasty than was natural.

Fíli straightened up so quickly that Kíli barely caught himself from falling sideways.

“Hey!” he called. In the growing dusk, his face glowed faintly pink. He was determined to salvage his blunder with the map, and it took a few moments for his usual princely manners to catch up with him.

“E – excuse me, sir, good evening, do you happen to know of a Hobbit called Mr. Boggins?”

Kíli watched in amusement as the old Hobbit quivered like a rabbit that was desperate to run, only the fox was watching him keenly.

“N-no, good sirs. Terribly sorry, can’t say I have.”

And with that, the Hobbit scurried for his half-open door. He had his hand on the doorknob when Fíli suddenly hissed: he shut his eyes and pressed his knuckles to his brow.

“ _Baggins_. It’s Baggins, for Durin’s name.”

Kíli snickered. By the thunderous glare sent his way, he would be in trouble later.

“O-oh, you must mean Mr. Bilbo Baggins,” said the good old Hobbit. “You’ll want Bag End, at the west edge of town. It’s the one with the green door. Good evening!”

And he shut his own door, very relieved to have the dwarf princes go bother someone else. With a headshake, he mused that he did not envy Mr. Baggins tonight. What strange company that Hobbit kept!


End file.
